


It's Not Fine Yet (But We're Getting There)

by honeyandsunshine



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Cousins AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Gladstone's got a couple of self-worth issues, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, but they're working on it, tbh i kinda forgot Gus was a character so..., they're all family and they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 18:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17813564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyandsunshine/pseuds/honeyandsunshine
Summary: A pretty direct continuation to Solbaby's 'It'll be fine', in which Gladstone should protect his kidneys in fights with schoolyard bullies, Don's the family matriarch, Fehtry's got a knack for showing up at the worst time, and Della shouldn't ever be put behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.(Or Gladstone's a bit more roughed up from the fight than anyone thought and everyone worries about it.)





	It's Not Fine Yet (But We're Getting There)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SolBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolBaby/gifts).
  * Inspired by [It'll be fine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16279535) by [SolBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolBaby/pseuds/SolBaby). 



> I just love Solbaby's AU so much. It's so good. So pure. Has so much room for collective angst. I love it. And I know Gus was totally supposed to be in this scene but for the angst(tm) let's just pretend he isn't. (Honestly, if you had told me a year ago the first thing I'd be putting on this account was a Ducktales AU I'd think you were crazy, but here we are)

Gladstone wakes up because his stomach hurts.

There’s plenty of other reasons he could have woken up. The credits to the movie are rolling obnoxiously loud in the background. Don’s practically draped over top of him, and judging by the wet patch on his knee, Fethry’s drooled down the entire length of his leg. He can hear Dell snoring on the other side of the couch, a sound that has been proven to wake the entire household. But he knows without a doubt, that it’s because of his stomach.

Because it’s never hurt this bad. It’s never hurt, _at all_.

With the exception of the fight today, Gladstone has never had stomach problems or any problems, really. He’s always managed to avoid the stomach flu when it comes calling, even with the other three passing it about like a game of catch. He’s never had a cold, never gotten sick, never so much as sneezed. Every time he’s felt bad, there’s been a direct physical cause, usually a swift swat after pushing too many of Don’s buttons, and those were few and far inbetween. This isn’t like that.

He’s always heard the stomach flu described as nausea or dizziness, and while the both those symptoms are there, there’s something else too, an aching pain that descends from across his back to the pit of his stomach. His skin is too sensitive and his body too hot, and when he tries to move positions to alleviate some of the pain, his stomach starts spasming in a way that’s somehow worse. He doesn’t know whether he bites his beak to keep from crying out or throwing up or both, but he knows in that instant, he can’t stay here.

Don will kill him if he throws up on him. Della isn’t even near him, and she’ll probably have his head too. And Fethry? Fethry will probably cry, and that’s possibly the worst reaction he can think of. Feth’s always been like that, in tune with his cousins’ emotions, and Gladstone will not make his baby cousin cry again today. Not after what happened. Gladstone’s always been a bit dramatic -Granny says he gets it from his mother- but he knows he’d do anything to keep that from happening.

Still, just the idea of moving makes tears prick at the corners of his eyes. If just shifting made him feel like this what will walking do? Will he even be able to walk? His luck will help him surely, but, if that’s the case, shouldn’t it have stopped it from happening entirely? Shouldn’t he be fine like he always is? Gladstone’s not a help to his family - _he’s never been good enough to help_ \- but he’s not a hindrance. Fethry’s the one they should be worrying about now; he’s the one who was panicking just a couple of hours ago, the one who Della had to pull out of a locker for G-d’s sake. Gladstone can handle himself just fine. He may not be strong like Don or charming like Della, but he can work past a simple stomach ache.

Even if he feels like crying into Don’s flannel right now.

Instead, he thinks of the way his cousin’s shoulders had set when he placed himself between him and danger, and mimics it the best he can, pushing out a breath even when he feels like being sick right there on their worn-out rug. He feels his fingers curl into fists. Anger has always ran in their family, but not everyone shows it the way Don does. Fethry snarks off, Della spits out barb after barb, and Gladstone lets his simmer, always has, letting it bubble and brew until he’s molded it into something he can use. His anger is more laser-focused, and he points it where he always does: right at himself.

Because what kind of cousin would he be to make such a big deal over a stomach ache after the events of today. He may be horrible at most things - _at everything really_ \- but at least he can keep his mouth shut and suffer through it long enough for Feth to be ok; it’s the least he can do. It’s all he can do. So his grits his teeth, steadies his legs, and reaches up to nudge Don off his shoulder.

“Bathroom,” He mumbles, in response to the one-eyed glare Don gives him, and hopes that it comes out groggy and not breathless from pain. He hooks one arm protectively over his stomach, places one along the wall, and hunkers his way to the bathroom as fast as he can. Then promptly moves faster when a need makes itself known. He has to remind himself that the hand anchoring him to the wall is the only thing keeping him upright, and no matter how great the urge, to not press it against his mouth instead. He grits his bill instead and swallows down the bile he feels press against the back of his throat.

He still barely makes it in time.

His knees scrape the floor, and the tile is painstakingly cold, but Gladstone has much more pressing matters, like burying his head in the toilet seat and trying his hardest not to cry when he’s forcefully reacquainted with his supper. His body shakes through it, and all the while, his stomach and back spasms with pain. He barely has time to take a breath before another round begins, burning its way up his esophagus. He coughs and chokes and gives up on not crying because it _hurts_ so much.

So he sobs and cries and grips the toilet seat so hard his hands shake, and just when he thinks it can’t get any worse, when he thinks this is the worst possible way to go out, the doorknob turns and Fethry walks in.

Gladstone freezes. Or, he tries to, but his body won’t allow him even that much, and the next second he’s bent double back over the bowl, gagging pitifully over what little is left in his stomach. He can hear Fethry’s startled gasp from where he’s kneeling but he can barely keep himself upright, much less address the glaring problem in the room.

“Gladdy?” Fethry says, and Gladstone promptly discovers there’s a way for him to feel worse than he already does. This is the second time today Fethry’s said his name with that tone of absolute panic and the second time Gladstone hasn’t been able to do anything about it. His weak “I’m fine” does nothing to alleviate the worry in his cousin’s gaze. Instead, it seems to drive it, and suddenly, his cousin is gone at a run, shouting off a quick “I’m getting Don” over his shoulder. Gladstone can’t even chase after him. He can’t do anything. It seems to be a common theme of the day. The thought makes him want to cry, so he does. Hard and loud, interspaced by gagging because he can’t seem to stop.

When he hears Don coming, he’s still bent over the toilet, crying and dry-heaving and miserable. He’s not able to help his only baby cousin, but he wants his other cousin, he wants Don to help him so bad even if he’s done nothing to deserve it. He’s not able to help Fethry but Della can; she’s always been better with him. And Don will keep them all safe and protected because he can fix anything, even if he’s got the worst luck in the world.

He wants Don; he _needs_ Don. He can make sure Fethry’s ok and make sure Gladstone’s ok too because he really _really_ doesn’t think he is. He doesn’t even realize he’s saying any of that aloud until Don appears at his side, responding to each and every plea. “Hey, hey, I’m right here. Fethry’s fine; he’s with Della over there. C’mon, slow down. You need to breathe, Glad.” So he does, takes in a breath and sobs it out just as quickly, feeling his quaking muscles shudder with the force of it. Don brushes a hand over his curls in response. His fingers linger against his forehead, pressing lightly before he backs up with a displeased huff.

“Dells, can you grab the thermometer?” He asks, and from the corner of his eye, he watches Della shepherd a frightened Fethry out of the doorway. Don dips back down to fill his vision.

“How long have you been sick?” And Gladstone, so focused on Fethry, reels at the sudden attention. He wonders if the retching is as much an answer as any. Apparently not, as Don squeezes his arm for attention the second he’s done.

“I know you feel like shit right now, but I need you to answer me. How long were you sick?” He palms his forehead again. “Since you got up?”

Gladstone lets out an affirmative from low in his throat that somehow doesn’t set him off. Don puts an arm around his shoulders. For just a second, he gets a flash of him snatching Don’s jacket during the fight earlier, and somehow knows that this has the same meaning. Don’s holding himself back from something; what he doesn’t have the energy to guess.

“ _Damn_ it, Gladstone. Why didn’t you-” Don cuts himself off with a huff and a tight bill. The arm across his shoulders tightens, and Gladstone can’t help but lean into his cousin’s warmth. He’s far too hot right now, so much so that he wants to lay back down on the filthy bathroom tile just because it's cool, but Don is sturdy and comforting and above all things _safe_ and somehow that that matters more. So he leans into him, and lets his cousin take his weight like he has time and time again.

“You gonna puke?” Don asks.

Gladstone shakes his head, but like everything he’s done today, it’s not all that convincing. Don stays glued to his side, rubbing a steady hand down his back, something that would, under normal circumstances, be comforting. That is, it would be if he didn’t press right over the spot where the pain was worst.

Gladstone yelps, as the pain intensifies and jerks away from the touch so fast his head spins. He sends himself crashing back to the floor just as Don snatches his hand away like it’d been burned.

“Gladstone?!” He snaps, in a voice just as worried as Fethry’s had been. Fear doesn’t fit right on Don. He’s supposed to be invincible, impervious, their rock. Anger is something Gladstone can handle; fear is another thing entirely. It consumes Don’s face, furrowing his brows and clouding his eyes, in a way anger never has.

He hasn’t seen this side to Don since his parents died. That more than anything gets him to speak.

“H-hurts.” He gasps, seemingly the only thing he’s able to get out. His body is back to the fire that had been plaguing him from the moment he woke, causing him to curl tight into himself, and even Don’s achingly gentle touches feel like brands, scalding him with every soft brush.

“What hurts? Where does it hurt?” Don sounds practically frantic, his voice up an octave higher than it usually is. His hands brush his arms, his chest, tear his button-up open like its concealing a gaping wound. “Is it your stomach? Your chest? Gladdy, _please_ just tell me what’s wrong.”

Gladstone grits his beak and tries, tries to speak, but he can’t form words no matter how terrified Don looks. His cousin’s voice has taken on the same tone it took when Della broke her arm or when Fethry got stung while they were camping and they couldn’t find his epipen. He sounds absolutely wretched.

But the most alarming thing wasn’t the frantic tone or the desperate flailing movements. It’s not the worry he can see framing his cousin’s face. It's not even the pain blossoming across his entire torso.

It’s that one word. Don had called him _Gladdy_.

‘Gladdy’ was reserved for Fethry and Grandma Coot and sometimes Della, when she was in a particularly good mood. The last time that nickname came out of Don’s mouth that was the day he moved into Grandma Coots’, and he and Don had practically the first civil conversation since birth, him hiding from everyone in the pantry and Don leaning against the door, talking about anything and everything until he’d calmed down enough to come out.

He was only Gladdy to Don when there was something earth-shatteringly, terrifyingly wrong, and he was using it over a _stomach ache_.

Which made him realize, for the first time tonight, that it might be something much worse than that. Don seems to come to the same conclusion. His cousin’s eyes widen, and the hands raking over Gladstone come to a sudden, instant stop. Don seems to come back to himself in that single beat.

“In that fight today, did you get hit in the stomach before I got there? Or,” He moves his warmth away to hover a hand over a spot towards his back, right where the pain is the worst. “Did they hit you about here? Gladstone, I need to know right now.”

Gladstone nods, and his cousin curses under his breath, words he’d never use around Fethry but Gladstone has heard time and time again. He slips his arm back across his shoulders.

“Alright,” Don says. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I am going to take you to the truck, and we’re going to go to the hospital. They’re going to fix you up, and then we’re going to go home, and you’re going to tell me, in explicit detail, _why the hell_ you didn’t wake me the minute you felt like this.”

And doesn’t that make him feel like shit, even more than before. Because Don sounds tired and angry but his voice rings with the note it takes when he’s about to cry, and Gladstone had been trying so, so hard not to make anyone else cry today.

It doesn’t get to that point. Don ducks his head before any tears can form but still. He’d almost… and because of him?

Gladstone’s almost glad when Don yells for Dells to start the truck, if only because it distracts him from the guilt steadily welling up inside him.

“You ready?” Don asks, and Gladstone dips his head in some semblance of a nod. Don is as gentle as he’s ever been when he picks him up. It still hurts.

He’s certain he lets out some sort of noise because Don’s immediately shushing him. He hitches him up further in his arms and presses him close like he used to do when Fethry was really little, after his parents died and he’d run crying into Don and Della’s room night after night. Gladstone isn’t little anymore, and even when he was Don hadn’t carried him like this, but action makes Gladstone think back anyway, to his Mom and his Dad, to the sway of them carrying him to bed on the rare night they let him stay up late.

It isn’t the same, or anywhere close really. He’s still just as tall as Don, although nowhere near as heavy, and his cousin has to strain to keep up the bridal carry. Gone is the scent of his father’s cologne. Instead, Don smells like that off-brand laundry detergent Granny uses because there’s four of them, with ripped clothes that don’t quite fit, and expensive detergent is something they just can’t afford to splurge on. Everything is different and shouldn’t feel as much like home as it does, but the arms around him are as secure as he can remember anything being. It’s enough of a distraction for Gladstone to ignore the pain pulsing along his back and his churning stomach to bury his face in Don’s flannel instead.

They meet a tight-lipped Della and Feth in the hall, who come complete with blankets and keys and fierce worried expressions that track him without fail. Dell tucks her favorite quilt against his chest, with hands that tremble ever so slightly, throws the now useless thermometer at Fethry, and then leads the way out the front door.

Don always drives, but this time there’s no arguing as he shoves Della to the front and climbs in the side door with Gladstone cradled in his arms. Gladstone doesn’t know whether its because Don actually knows he needs the contact or his own ironclad grip on his cousin’s flannel, but whatever keeps him there is enough for him. Somewhere along the line Fethry slips in, bracketing Gladstone and Don in between him and Della. His hand slips into Gladstone’s and holds it like its something precious, and despite Della’s truly horrendous driving, he doesn’t let go until they get to the hospital.

It shouldn’t fix anything, and it doesn’t really. Gladstone still feels like he’s burning from the inside out, Del’s face is frozen in a worried scowl, and Don greets the ER staff with something akin to righteous fury when they try to take Gladstone from his grasp. 

They're not fine, but they're getting there. It's enough for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> PS. Gladstone's essentially got a nice set of bruised kidneys. Sorry for any slight medical inaccuracies. I tried. 
> 
> And if you're wondering where Grandma Coot is, she left for one (1) day on an overnight trip, and promptly loses her mind over the sheer amount of trouble her grandkids can manage to get in over the course of 24 hours. I mean the hospital? Bruised Kidneys??? Seriously???


End file.
